Impressions
by Semi-Retired Writer
Summary: Peter's already anxious about meeting all of the Avengers peacefully for the first time, but then a cold strikes before he even gets a chance to say hello.


How does Peter land himself in these situations?

It's his first time meeting the full team (well, most of the team), and he managed to catch a cold right on schedule. He can't tell if he was just due for one (it _is_ the heart of winter, after all) or if all the stress wore him down enough to weaken his immune system (damn Mr. Stark for telling him about this over a month ahead of time), but he's undeniably sick.

His best attempt at combatting it is dissolving most of the Emergen-C at the back of the medicine cabinet into a single glass of water and practically inhaling the smoothie-thick result, but he slows down and gives up upon realizing it's already too late to hope it will actually do anything for him. All he really accomplishes is making his mouth probably permanently taste like artificial cherry. He has the bright idea to brush his teeth to solve the problem only to create an abominable cherry-mint aftertaste instead. Today is _not_ his day.

He's freaking out for no good reason, and he knows that. He really does. Logically, he knows they'll barely pay any attention to him at the compound, instead distracting themselves with one another, but that knowledge doesn't soothe the anxiety much. He's had a month to reassure himself. If there's anything effective to say, he hasn't found it yet and he has no chance of finding that reassurance today. They're still going to see him and form their first impressions of him no matter what goes down and how is he supposed to deal with that? He's not _ready_.

Forget worrying about how his powers stack up to theirs, now he's not even sure he won't outright disgust them. Between the never-ending runny nose, the harsh coughs, and the unpredictable sneezes, it's not a great day for his self-confidence. He's already had to change shirts twice after a couple unfortunate sneeze-related accidents, and if he decorates his third t-shirt of the day with buckets of snot in front of the Avengers, he might actually die on the spot.

Cancelling is an option. He's told himself that so many times already, but the concept never sticks. As a kind-of-sort-of trainee but not an official Avenger, he's not needed for the team meeting or even invited to the serious parts of it, _but_ everyone already knows he's supposed to be there to meet them. A real Avenger wouldn't call out sick over a little cold. It isn't that bad; if he really felt the need, he could even patrol like this…

He gets close to texting Mr. Stark and feigning a stomach bug instead, but before he works up the nerve to _lie his ass off_ , Happy's parked outside and it's too late to get out of it.

One miserable car ride later, he's walking through the front entrance and wrapping up on mentally slapping himself for forgetting to grab a pack of tissues on his way out of the apartment. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and his jacket sleeves were sacrificed in the line of fire during the ride. _Not_ his best moment.

He doesn't know which is worse: the feel of the damp, almost slippery fabric sliding off his wrists as he takes the jacket off and rearranges it in his arms to hold it from a dry spot, or the visceral temperature drop from removing his only long-sleeved layer.

He's hesitant to wander the compound without Mr. Stark, but he is _so_ not saying hi with his stubbornly dripping nose undoing any shred of adult aura he'd painstakingly established over the past few months. Most of the compound is a mystery to Peter, but he _does_ know where to find a bathroom to attempt to mop up his face.

He's not the first to arrive, but none of the rogue Avengers are in the living area when he walks in. Colonel Rhodes is parked in an armchair, arms folded across his chest and fast asleep. He hears Ms. Romanov's voice from nearby, but he doesn't hear whoever she's talking to if they respond.

For once, Mr. Stark isn't tapping away at a Starkpad with a blueprint or Stark Industries document. He's in another armchair, feigning relaxation, but Peter can tell he's anything but after knowing him for this long. Mr. Stark never takes the time to sit and do _nothing_ , and staring unseeingly at the far wall definitely counts as doing nothing. That very lack of distraction dooms him.

"What happened to you?" pops out of his mouth the instant Peter walks in. Apparently, he wasn't as zoned out as he looked.

"Nothing!" he protests. "Hi, Mr. Stark!"

Mr. Stark's mouth is open again when Peter cuts him off with the millionth sneeze of the day, followed by another and then another until his hasty clean-up attempt was for naught and he felt gross all over again.

"Nothing, huh?"

Peter curls into himself when Mr. Stark pulls out his phone, probably to rat him out to May (which is silly because if there's one dumb thing he does that May understands and has no qualms with, it's pushing through very minor illnesses). He's surprised when a man's tinny voice answers almost inaudibly.

"Don't 'Hi, Tony' me, Happy. Tell me: why is an obviously sick kid here to meet the team?"

There's a response, but not one Peter can make out. He's left guessing the conversation based on Mr. Stark's end.

"Well, neither am I, and _I_ figured it out easy enough. I'm failing to see an excuse here."

Another long pause.

"Yeah, yeah. He's already here. Probably infected us all, so no use turning around. Just come pick him up at, say, seven."

This time Mr. Stark was talking again almost immediately.

"He _was_. Not anymore. He's better off home for the rest of the weekend." He turns to Peter. "Right, kid?"

Clearly, it was rhetorical because he doesn't let Peter say anything before he's reminding Happy to show up at seven again and hanging up.

"Alright. Okay, sick kid. It's just a cold, yeah?" This time he waits long enough for Peter to nod. "Okay. A cold, I can handle."

He presses a hand to Peter's back and does a mixture of guiding and manhandling him onto the nearest couch with a murmured command to stay while he taps Mr. Rhodes and scares him out of sleep. He's still muttering seemingly to himself when they leave the room a second later.

Peter kindly saves Mr. Stark's feelings of authority by neglecting to mention he can hear the man begging FRIDAY for help a few rooms away.

The first thought that jumps to mind when he returns is whether he should be more preoccupied with the thin, dark green smoothie in Mr. Stark's hand or the entirety of Colonel Rhodes trailing behind him, arms laden with a thousand different medicine bottles.

The hesitancy Peter heard in his voice when he thought he was alone is gone now. Mr. Stark acts like he's known exactly what to do all along, handing him the smoothie and large doses of a few medicines one by one while he pulls an ear thermometer out of seemingly nowhere. For his part, Peter lets him.

There's not much to do. Mr. Stark makes him lay down and gives him a throw blanket and the TV remote (after thoroughly blowing Peter's mind by showing him how to remotely roll back the panels hiding the TV on one of the walls).

The smoothie is… not great. Peter gave it a few large sips to satisfy Mr. Stark, but the half-empty drink in his hand now probably won't be any less full no matter how long he has it. He hands it to Mr. Stark only to see a grimace before Colonel Rhodes swoops in to pull it from his hand instead.

"Nah, Rhodey. Leave it. The Spiderling can finish it later."

Peter's face falls while the colonel hides a smirk from behind Mr. Stark's back. At least someone understands his suffering, even if he's not going to save him.

After all that, he's ordered to stick to the couch while he a) finishes the supposedly immune-boosting smoothie, b) naps, and c) keeps FRIDAY updated on anything he needs while the others regroup in a conference room nearby without him. Leaving him out makes perfect sense even if it crushes his soul just a little, but Mr. Stark leaves the door wide open so that it's barely even a strain to make out every word. Peter briefly wonders whether it was on purpose or if he just forgot about the super hearing again.

Actually, they never _did_ have a real discussion about Peter's powers. Does Mr. Stark even know? He realizes he's been assuming Mr. Stark knew everything in that adult authority figure way, but maybe it's time to reconsider…

He supposes he should nap like Tony asked, and he tries—he really does!—but the words floating down the hall are just a little too loud, the couch just a bit too unfamiliar, and the cold not quite taxing enough to let sleep come to him. He rests with his eyes closed instead, letting the different voices rush over him in waves as he tunes in and out.

It's less interesting that he expected. He never really read up on the Accords. Politics and current events don't interest him when they don't impact Spider-Man's activities, there'd been enough on his plate at the time (and even now), and he trusted that Mr. Stark wouldn't steer him wrong, so he just… never set aside the time. Listening to the Avengers now, he wonders if he'd even have been able to get through the documents if he tried. Even in their own words, the legalese coming from down the hall was complicated and packed full of non-meaning. It's almost enough to lull him into actual sleep.

The shift of the discussion into a yelling match pulls him out of his trance. It's been awhile, but he can't put a finger on exactly how much time has passed. They're not yelling about the Accords anymore and he can't remember when they stopped, so he knows he finally passed out and got some rest at some point.

On the more negative side? It's definitely him they're arguing about.

" _Fifteen_ , Tony! What the hell!" That sounds like Captain America.

"Nobody told me I was fighting a _kid_!" That voice sounds familiar, but Peter can't place who exactly the man is.

"Jesus, alright!" It's Mr. Stark this time, finally bringing the screaming to an end. "Yes, we've established—many times over, might I add—that Spider-Man is a kid. And clearly we aren't one big, happy, alien-fighting family again and won't be anytime soon, but you're _not_ all teaming up on me in my own home. Not gonna happen, so let's all calm the hell down."

It's near silent for a beat, only the soft rush of the overhead heating vents disturbing the peace. His throat tickles and Peter has to hold back a coughing fit to avoid bringing the tentative truce to complete destruction.

"Okay." Mr. Rogers' voice doesn't betray that he was in the frontlines of a yelling match not one minute ago. "Explain then."

Peter's interest is piqued, but the door snaps shut just then, and the ensuing conversation is muffled beyond recognition. He wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Stark had the conference room fairly soundproofed.

Well, that was rude. There went his distraction.

One short nap was enough, so he can't fall back asleep while he waits. He lasts less than a minute peering around the room before he's digging for his phone in his discarded jacket, already desperate for another distraction from the boredom.

He's scrolled all the way back to yesterday's Instagram posts and started on his Twitter feed before anything happens.

"Yeah, he's a good kid," Mr. Stark is saying when the door swings open once more. "He'll be better than any of us one day."

When the team regroups on the couches, Peter explains away the traces of happy tears as the result of a coughing fit, but the wink Mr. Stark sends his way when no one else is looking says it all.


End file.
